


A Team Story [Special Unedited Preview]

by tiptoe39



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hockey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: This is a preview of a set of short stories I'm planning involving the adventures of an NHL expansion team in Wisconsin. It's very rough and may be edited or rewritten before long. At some point, this work may be deleted and a new version posted.





	A Team Story [Special Unedited Preview]

**PAUL'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT**  
  
Draft day is Paul's birthday.  
  
Not the expansion draft; that happened several days ago and was its own brand of hell. But at least there was applause then, and flashing lights; this is different, sitting in an uncomfortable suit with his brand-new managers and staff, preparing to go on up to the dais and announce, cheerfully and with enthusiasm he doesn't feel the slightest bit of, the Milwaukee Mammoths' first-ever draft pick.  
  
They've corralled him into this duty after grooming him for months, but that doesn't mean that Paul's used to it. Or that he can't think of a million places he'd rather be. Like at the dentist getting a root canal, or freezing in the Alaskan tundra, or possibly waiting in line at the DMV. Anything but here and now, in this place, to do this job.  
  
Ideally, Paul should be sitting at home in Florida, perhaps out back by the pool. With a burger he's grilled himself in one hand, and a drink Jodie's mixed for him in the other. Watching Vernon chase one of his floppy chew toys around the yard. Seeing Jodie tote Cathy, water wings deployed, in the shallow end.  
  
In Paul's mind, they turn and wave to him. Here, in the pre-show madness, nobody has anything to say to him. Certainly not "happy birthday."  
  
He supposes his first mistake was in letting himself believe he wouldn't be touched. Even though management sat with him in those first few weeks after the draft protocol was announced and said, "We'll do the best we can to protect you." (And then, after that was proved a lie, "We're certain they'll go for Skelton or Carter before you.") His first mistake was to listen when they said "Relax, Bolton. Relax."  
  
It isn't as though talks with management are ever a) believable or b) calming, but Jodie said the same thing. And Jodie never says what she doesn't believe, nor does she believe what she doesn't understand. Jodie has more horse sense than Paul does when it comes to the machinations of hockey executives; she's successfully predicted trades and deals enough times that it's become a sort of party trick. "I learned everything I know about hockey from her," he says, and everybody laughs.  
  
So he was inclined to believe her when she cocked her head and said, counting on her fingers, "They have Jeff to protect, and Cody and Henrik too. Of course they were never going to protect you, hon. It's a calculation."  
  
"Thank you," he said dryly, "I feel so valued right now."  
  
"You're not listening to me. It's a calculation between who they need to hold on to _and_ who they think is likely to get drafted. They're not protecting you because they don't _have_ to. Of all the boys available, they're not going to choose a 33-year-old third-line center. It's not an attractive option."  
  
"Unvalued and unattractive. Better and better," Paul said.  
  
Jodie laughed and stepped behind him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her mouth to his ear. "To hockey suits. I happen to find you _plenty_ attractive."  
  
She always knows what to say to make Paul feel better, or at least how to distract him from whatever's making him feel worse. And he knows that Jodie believed what she said, because that's how she is. Still, just this time, he blames himself for being too quick to believe.  
  
He should have remembered the axiom of professional sports: no home is permanent, no team is home. You can live your whole life in a place, but unless you're an Adrian Stenberg-caliber talent, you can always, always, be traded away. Six years made him comfortable. Comfortable enough to build his house. To marry Jodie. To have Cathy. He doesn't regret any of those decisions, but he regrets the state of mind that brought him there. He should have known better.  
  
To their credit, both the Florida and Milwaukee management were exceptional at keeping him in the loop. After it became abundantly clear that Milwaukee wanted him, after it became clear that Florida wasn't willing to put up a fight, everyone involved was attentive to a fault in making sure he was comfortable and had all the information he needed. They saw him as a potential captain, they said. They were interested in his potential to mentor some of the kids they'd draft or call up. Paul could be a mature voice on the team. Someone to look up to.  
  
And damn if that wasn't preying on his weakness. If Paul enjoyed his tenure on the Panthers, it was at least partially because of the tendency of the younger guys to come to him about anything--techniques, trivia, personal problems. Paul liked being the guy with the answers. Skells and Joey were always at him in the locker room. "Hey, Bolts, can I ask you a question?" "Bolts, I'm having trouble with my wrist shot. Can you take a look?" "Hey, Bolts, Guti told me you'd know the answer to this." And so on and so forth. It felt good. If that's what it was going to be like in Milwaukee, maybe the whole thing would be tolerable after all.  
  
So Paul did his level best to be optimistic. Once the language coming from his agent slipped from "interested" to "leaning" in his direction, then putting him in "serious contention," he did his best to accept that this was, in fact, a thing that was going to happen.  
  
It didn't make it any less of a shock when Ernie and a pair of other managers sat him down on an early June morning and said to him, "Paul, we'll come out and say it.  We're letting you go to Milwaukee."  
  
Paul looked from one to the other, knowing his eyes were glassy and his jaw slack. "You're letting me go?" he echoed, and then repeated himself. "You're letting me go. Jesus."  
  
His mind whirled to life. There were so many things he had to do. So many things to think about. He would have to move. He would have to leave the home he helped build, put his daughter in a new school, get used to a new climate. He would have to meet all new teammates, make new friends, and find all new places to live and work and be. What had grown familiar, what had grown to be home, would be gone within a month or two, and he would be tetherless, like a rookie just called up, a stranger in a strange town.  But unlike a rookie, Paul did not have a bright future ahead of him.  He had only a few more precious years before all of this was over and he would be groundless, tetherless, again.  
  
It scared the hell out of him.  
  
But Jodie made it all seem matter-of-fact and natural. She shuffled Paul through the mountain of tasks he needed to accomplish. By the time the draft came around, they had a house ready to receive them and had moving dates set. Paul would almost feel confident about, if not his future in general, at least this move——if it weren't for one more small thing. One more small, highly annoying thing.  
  


* * *

 

After the Mammoths roster was revealed, talk turned to the draft. The Mammoths had been the odds-on favorite to draw the first slot, and sure enough, that's how it had happened. Now the name on everyone's lips was Dimitri Kozlov. A Russian kid, but he'd been playing in Toronto since his early teen years. Killer shot, quick on the ice, impulsive but with great vision. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was the Next Big Thing. So Paul resolved to look him up.  
  
This was his second mistake.  
  
Game footage of Kozlov was suitably impressive. Paul watched a couple of YouTubes of his play, then clicked on an interview. It was rinkside, after a game. The young reporter started by congratulating a flushed, grinning Kozlov on the victory.  
  
He turned to her and feigned surprise. "Oh, you were watching? Do you like hockey?"  
  
She laughed. Paul frowned.  
  
"Take us through your goal on the two-on-one," the reporter prompted Kozlov.  
  
He ran his hand through sweat-damp, dark hair and said, "We're coming into the zone and I see him coming behind me, but then I see the shot. And I'm thinking, I can take the pass or I can take the shot. So I take it."  
  
"Your teammate looked a little surprised he never got the pass," she said.  
  
"Yeah, my coaches are probably on the bench saying _what are you doing?_ " Kozlov laughed. "But they're not on the ice, you know? Old guys tell you what to do when they're not on the ice. I see the shot, I take the shot. I'm the one on the ice. And I got the goal. Old guys just be quiet already."  
  
This was about the point Paul started disliking him. Optimism was one thing, but this kid had clearly been told at an early age he was charmed, and had no reason to disbelieve it. It was the kind of confidence that gave Paul a headache in his eye.  
  
The reporter, on the other hand, seemed impressed. "You did indeed," she said. "How are you feeling about the draft? They're saying if it's held today, you're going first."  
  
"They say that?" Again, Kozlov feigned ignorance. "Wow, that's really nice!"  
  
Like he didn’t know scouts across the country were drooling at the prospect of bringing him in. Like he wasn’t aware of the headlines that stretched across the hockey web, like this was the first instead of the five hundredth person to ask him that question.  
  
When the reporter laughed and went along with the ruse—”Oh, you haven’t heard that?”—Paul wanted to puke. God couldn’t save him from Milwaukee, but God had to save him from dealing with that kind of fake-innocent arrogance. Or, worse, real innocence. If Kozlov was in fact that humble and excitable, he would be even more insufferable.  
  
One thing seemed sure: If Kozlov went to Milwaukee, it would become a media circus. And Kozlov’s head would inevitably swell to the size of the jumbotron.  
  
"He's cute," Jodie said over his shoulder.  
  
Paul jumped. "Don't scare me like that."  
  
"Sorry, sorry." She kissed his cheek. "Who is he?"  
  
"Dimitri Kozlov. Likely number one pick."  
  
"Aww. He's adorable."  
  
"I don't know about adorable," Paul said. "He seems like a cocky little shit to me."  
  
"He's what, eighteen?" Jodie moved about the den, put on a light on the desk. "They're all cocky at eighteen. You were too. Maybe he's just a happy kid who loves the game."  
  
Paul squinted. "I doubt it. Kid probably thinks he's God's gift to hockey. And even if he is just a 'happy kid,' he's about to be in way over his head. Either way, the league is gonna chew him up and spit him out."  
  
"Either way," Jodie echoed pointedly, "he could probably use someone looking out for him."  
  
"You mean me."  
  
"You're not the worst choice in the world." Jodie dropped to her knees beside Paul's chair and took his hand, gazing up at him. In the lamplight, her eyes glittered, soft honey-colored dots in her pupils. "Sweetie, this move is going to be fine. You're going to be fine. We're going to be there for you the whole way."  
  
"I don't like it," Paul muttered. "I don't like that we worked so hard to make this place ours, and now we're losing it. I don't like taking Cathy away from the only home she knows."  
  
"She's four, Paul. She's resilient. She has a world of new experiences ahead of her." Jodie stroked his hand gently, soft fingers on his palm. "This is an adventure. Once upon a time, that's all you wanted. Remember?"  
  
"Not like this," Paul said. "Not now."  
  
Jodie stood, leaned over his shoulder, and murmured in his ear. "You've gotten too comfortable, Mr. Bolton. It's about time we shook things up. You're going to be _fine_."

* * *

  
And he really did want to believe that. He still does. As the commissioner stands up and gives his opening speech to the crowded stadium, Paul looks around the table at the suits and stern faces. They're not the friendliest, but then again, they're management, and they don't have to be. It's the coaches and the players that Paul will be looking to bond with, and he has at least one advantage there. Among the draft picks was one Prince Buxton, an old college buddy of Paul's, now a defenseman in Arizona. Paul and Buxxy usually did a workout camp or two together in the summers, punctuated by a lot of drinking and reminiscing. And Paul will probably need a drinking buddy, if Dimitri Kozlov ends up being as annoying as advertised.  
  
But drinking comes later. For now, it's time to stand up on that stage and be the ambassador for his new team.  
  
As he files up on to the stage behind a line of grim, suited managers, Paul has a brief, intense urge to bolt for the door, just _nope_ right on out of there before it all becomes too real. It gives him a moment of giddy glee to imagine the fallout afterward.  The rush of press, the frantic covering up. It would serve them right for uprooting him. The thought brings a smile to his face.  
  
Then he looks at his note card again, and sighs. In the end, he's no longer an impulsive kid. Too damn bad.  
  
He steps to the podium at management's urging. Around him, the stadium buzzes with activity. Fans in the stands, team management at the long tables along the floor. Nobody's paying attention to him, because everyone already knows what he's going to say. They have their own deals to make, their own picks to negotiate. It's oddly comforting. Maybe if nobody hears him say it, it won't be true.  
  
He leans toward the microphone and reads carefully, "The Milwaukee Mammoths are proud to select Dimitri Kozlov."  
  
There. He's done it. No turning back now.  
  
Applause, and movement backstage. On the monitors, they show Kozlov hugging some of the other hopefuls. It doesn't look like his parents are there, Paul notes. He works his way down through the wings and onto the stage, and Paul tears his gaze from the monitors and has his first look at Dimitri Kozlov in the flesh.

He's tall and lean, built for speed. His eyes are bright. And he's got the same stupid smile on his face that he did in all those interviews. It's easy to see how one could fall for the easy charm he exudes, but Paul is wary. The thing about being a sure number-one pick is, you tend to believe your own hype. And he's had no inkling that Kozlov feels any different. He braces for first contact.  
  
Kozlov makes his way down the line, greeting and grinning and shaking hands. He takes his time, looking each of the managers in the eye and nodding and smiling as they welcome him. Paul expects the same when Kozlov makes it to him. He's not planning on falling for it.  
  
But when Kozlov reaches Paul in line, he doesn't just grin -- he lights up like a neon sign. "Paul Bolton, oh, my god!" he says, as though Paul's an A-list celebrity. "So nice to meet you!"  
  
"Uh," Paul says. He tries to drum up a nice-to-meet-you-too, but by then, Kozlov is having his purple Mammoths jersey thrown over his head.  
  
Paul stares as Kozlov wriggles around in the shirt like an oversized toddler. That had to be bullshit just now, right? Kozlov can't possibly be that happy to meet him. Paul's nobody special, just a transplanted third-line center. Kozlov probably just did his homework and knew to turn on the charm. But now he's poking his head through the top of the shirt, his hair all awry from the static, and god damn if his glow doesn't look totally authentic. Still. It has to be fake.  
  
They all get together for a picture. Photographers line up, urge them to squeeze closer. In the chaos, Kozlov grabs Paul's arm and pulls him in toward the center of the tableau.  
  
"It's your birthday today, right?" he says, as delighted as if it were his own. "Happy birthday to you!"  
  
Paul reels. How did he ...? That goes beyond research. It sure as hell goes above and beyond bullshit. Either this kid is calculating beyond calculating, Paul thinks, or...  
  
Or Jodie was right. He's 500 percent genuine.  
  
Shit.  
  
"Yeah, kid," he mutters through his smile as the flash goes off, "happy fucking birthday to me."


End file.
